


Gamble

by bonebo



Category: Death Note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 13:14:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But really, what good does it do to worry about the stakes, when it's the game itself he's addicted to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gamble

It’s on days like this that L Lawliet most wishes he was a normal person.

The hallway he walks down is quiet, eerily so, lit only by dirty lights that hang from the overly-tall ceiling; the tile below was once white, L imagines, but now it is stained with orange and grey and yellow splotches that have obviously been scrubbed and replaced and scrubbed and replaced, time and time again, a never-ending cycle.

For once, L is glad he wears his shoes.

He does wish he had brought his jacket, though, as inside the building it’s cold; the air is stale on his tongue, reeks of solitude and madness and disinfectant spray, and he seals his mouth shut against it, already craving sugar to get rid of the bitter taste. He passes rooms on either side of him as he slowly, steadily walks, each yet another block of white amid an endless sea, exactly twenty-six so far. 

L stops as he reaches the one he seeks.

It, unlike all the others, does have a distinguishing feature—it’s small, almost unnoticeable, but L has trained his eyes all his life to see the things that are hidden, and he fixes his gaze on it instantly.

It’s a small, intricate ‘B’, scratched into the paint on the steel door. 

L studies it for a moment, walks closer and rests his fingers upon it; the door itself is cool to his touch, but L swears he feels some sort of warmth coming from the ridges of the ‘B’, a heat against his fingertips like the remnants of a blazing fire.

And B _is_ a fire, L realizes again, B is the most unpredictable and uncontrollable man L has ever known, always so full of unwavering passion and unending energy, with madness as his spark and obsession his fuel; he is rightly insane but he is so clever, he’s cold to the outside world but yet when he presses himself against L he is so _warm_ , and he is—

_He is knocking on the door._

L recoils from the sound, the tap of knuckles against steel, and the voice, sweet and surprised and sickly fake. “What’s this? A visitor?" A pause, then: “Hello, are you there?"

"You’re not fooling anyone, B," L snaps, pulling the keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door. He waits—he tells himself it’s to allow B to move, since that’s the sensible thing, but he can’t deny the jitter of his nerves—and then he pushes the door open, slowly, its creak echoing around the otherwise-silent hall and raising the hairs on his neck.

And there he is.

There, in the center of the room, stands Beyond Birthday. His hair is as messy as ever, outlined in silver by the moonlight that pours in through the far-up window; half his face is wrapped in shadow, but the gleam of his eyes stand out in the darkness, a bloody beacon, and that’s all L needs to see. He takes a step inside the dimly-lit room, gaze fixed on B, wary.

B smiles and gestures to the bed with a sweep of his arm. “Do sit, Lawliet; let me break out the fine china, the good tea, and we’ll catch up—"

"I said you’re not fooling anyone, B," L repeats, not moving. “Least of all me. You should know that by now."

B keeps his smile frozen in place, but eventually it breaks, as he turns away with a low sigh. “I suppose you’re right…" His gaze darts up, locks with L’s, red eyes glittering with amusement and perhaps a trace of bitterness. “You always were the reasonable one, weren’t you?"

L pauses, then answers simply, “I am not insane."

"Nor am I!" B cries, looking at him imploringly, brows up and jaw agape. “They call me _mad_ in here, Lawliet! They say I’m crazy, that I’ve lost my marbles, that I’m off my rocker, that—"

"And what they say is true," L interrupts, voice slightly clipped—this happens every time. It’s so childish. 

B shoots him a wry look, as if he was planning every word of their current conversation. “They also say that you and I are no different—the same person, even."

L allows himself a snort. “On that account they could not be more wrong."

"Ah ah," B chides, shaking a finger, “You can’t do that, Lawliet! That’s breaking the rules!"

"There are no rules in this game," L snaps, growing frustrated already. “There never _have_ been, because even if there _were_ , you would break them—"

"I would." B says it proudly, crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t yield to anything—not even traffic lights. And I certainly don’t yield to you and your rules—"

"Yet here we stand."

"Because you cheated!"

"I did no such thing."

"You _did_!" His voice is almost whining now, grating on L’s ears, fingernails on a chalkboard. “It was supposed to be our game, just B and L, and you knew you were going to lose so you had to bring in that Misora creature—"

"I used my resources," L defends quickly; B rolls his eyes.

"You _cheated_."

"I…" L shuts his eyes, lets out a breath. He needs to be better than this—he has no time for these ridiculous, pointless arguments. "…am through discussing this. I have a purpose for showing up here, you do know."

"Aw." B lays a hand over his heart. “You didn’t come just to see me? I’m hurt, Lawliet."

"Yes, well." L walks closer, making sure the door is closed, locked securely. “All the hurt in the world isn’t punishment enough for what you did—"

"But it was fun, wasn’t it?" B’s gaze fixes on him, hungry now, raking down his body as he grabs L’s shirt and throws him against the wall. He leans closer, breath ghosting over L’s neck. “You _enjoyed_ our time together, didn’t you?"

L turns his head away, stares at the corner swallowed in blackness. “I wouldn’t use the word ‘enjoyed’—"

"You can stop being coy now, Lawliet," B snaps, fist tightening in the white t-shirt, and this is when L feels the real danger of their relationship. When he looks up at those red eyes and sees the gleaming madness there, when he feels the dirty nails bite into his skin, when the blood is spilled and B’s laughter rings true— _that_ is when L wonders, if he’s doing the right thing, if the stakes are really too high.

However, what good does it do to worry about the stakes, when it’s the game itself he’s addicted to?

None, he decides, as teeth sink into his neck and hands roam his body; it does no good, it never will, and he arches his back as he realizes that they’ll keep playing this dangerous little game until one of them is killed.

Which means, of course, that B holds the advantage—he has the eyes, he knows the time of death. He knows when the game will end.

And perhaps that, the note of uncertainty, the variable that L doesn’t know, is what keeps him always coming back for more.


End file.
